It's all fine
by immature-girl
Summary: Mycroft looked at him for a moment, before standing up and heading to the door. He stopped at the threshold with a tired sigh. "I'll try to catch you when you fall, John. I owe him that much, at least." He said before dissapearing downstairs. Post-reichenbach fic dealing with John's life after the fall.


The first week after Sherlock's death, John seemed to fade away from the world. He turned off his cell phone, disabled the comments on his blog and ignored Mrs. Hudson every time she went upstairs, trying to persuade him to eat or sleep. (_What for? Those things were _**_boring_**_ anyway._) Luckily, his landlady wasn't going to let him get away with it.

He was sitting in his armchair, simply looking ahead of him but not actually seeing anything, when Mrs. Hudson burst into the room and sat in front of him, with a determined expression on her face.

"John Watson, stop this right now."

John blinked a few times and looked at her, confused.

"What?"

"You can't keep doing this to yourself. What would Sherlock think if he-"

"Well, I guess we'll never know, won't we? Him being death and all," interrupted John grimly.

"Wrong," said Mrs. Hudson in a perfect impersonation of his flat mate. (_No. Not his flat mate anymore._) "He would call you an idiot and tell you to stop acting so foolish. After all," she added softly, "sitting around looking almost catatonic won't make him come back, John. You know that."

"I... I know. But I don't know what to do anymore. How can I just...?"

"John. I know this isn't something that will pass with a hot cup of tea and a long nap. But you have to put yourself back together. I'm not telling you to forget everything and simply move on with life like he never existed, but... You do have to let go. Or at least try. Could you do that? Please?"

Unable to handle the distraught look Mrs. Hudson was sending him, John promised her he would try, and accepted her offer for a cup of tea and biscuits.

Than night, John thought about what Mrs. Hudson said and realized that he had been a bit selfish. After all, he wasn't the only one affected by Sherlock's death. He was so consumed by his own grief that he forgot that his landlady had known Sherlock for longer than he did, and was probably as upset by his death as he was. He made up his mind and decided to stop behaving so pathetically. After all, if the others were able to move on with their life, why couldn't he?

Because he was crap at it, apparently.

In the end, John decided to compromise. He would go back to work and show his face every once in a while to let others know that _yes, he was fine,_ and in return, he would do the only thing that helped him deal with everyday life: He took hold of Sherlock's scarf. It was strangely soothing to simply hold the soft fabric when he laid in bed, and breathe in its scent. It was almost as if Sherlock was right there with him, by his side, instead of trapped underground in a wooden coffin.

It was a win-win situation. People would stop worrying about him, and he would be able to keep his sanity.

_Wrong._

He should have seen it coming, really. Mycroft Holmes was the only one that hadn't inquired about his emotional state, so it was bound to happen eventually. But _of course_, he had underestimated him.

"Good afternoon, John."

"Mycroft," acknowledged John with a nod. "Would you like some tea?"

"Please."

"So," said John after the tea was made, sitting in his armchair in front of Mycroft, "what brings you around?"

"What? Can't I come to visit and old acquaintance?"

"Stop fooling around Mycroft. We both know that's not your style. What is it?"

"It's not healthy," he finally said.

"Excuse me?"

"What you're doing. It's not healthy John."

"I don't know what you're-"

"Yes, you do," said Mycroft with a grin that didn't quiet reach his eyes. "You can pretend all you want John, but you can't keep anything from me. You should know that by now."

John drew in a breath, irritated. "Listen, Mycroft. What I do with my life is none of your business. I am _fine_. You may not approve of my methods, but what I'm doing actually helps me to deal with... The current situation." He sighed and looked away from him, trying to regain his composure.

"You're not dealing with the situation John. You're in denial."

"And what if I am?" he whispered. "If these makes me feel better, why does it matter-?"

"Because," interrupted Mycroft with a worried look, "you have to know it won't last. And I can't watch you do this to yourself."

"Then don't," John replied softly, looking at him straight in the eyes.

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, before standing up and heading to the door. He stopped at the threshold with a tired sigh. "I'll try to catch you when _you_ fall, John. I owe him that much, at least," he said before disappearing downstairs.

* * *

He closed his eyes and smelled the fading scent of _Sherlock_ from the scarf. After so many months, his scent should have faded completely, but John could have sworn there were some remains of it, if only because he had it so engraved inside his head that it was impossible to erase it.

Curled up like this on his bed, with the scarf clutched firmly to him, he could almost feel Sherlock's presence and forget that the man was, indeed, dead. He could pretend that the last few months never happened; that Sherlock was still his genius self, running around London and solving crimes, dragging John with him, as a sounding board, as a partner, as a _friend_...

But of course, the sun would always rise in the end, bringing back reality with it, to remind John the truth and force him to face another day on his own. _Another_ day _without_ Sherlock in it.

John Watson had never been the kind of man to wallow in self-pity.

When he had come back from Afghanistan, he had focused all his strength on putting himself back together. He had exercised his shoulder to regain its mobility and he had gone to his assigned therapist without complaint, trying to prove her (_and himself_) that he was fine. That it was _all_ fine.

So, as if he had put himself in auto-pilot, he started to use the same tactic again. He went to work, talked to Lestrade and Ms. Hudson every once in a while to let them know that _yes, he was fine, everything was fine_, and simply kept going on with his life. Except, of course, he didn't.

It was only at night, when the flat was quiet (_too quiet, why is the flat so goddamn quiet?_) that he allowed himself to let go like this, to just stop pretending that everything was fine.

Because, how could he forget Sherlock? How could he forget the man that had made him so happy, that had made him forget what loneliness felt like, that helped him get rid of his limp, and his nightmares, and simply made him feel alive again?

He was (_is_) his best friend, and he owned him everything.

* * *

On the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, John decided he could let his mask slip a little. After all, _it was_ the anniversary of his best friend's death; it wouldn't be unusual to see him upset over it.

As expected, things didn't go well. _At all_.

Apparently, getting rid of his protective shell, on this particular day, may not have been the best of the ideas. It had seemed easy enough in his mind: Get up, do only the day shift at the surgery, and go to the cemetery in the afternoon for a couple of minutes, before heading home.

He didn't expect the rain, which only worsened his mood, or the messages on his blog, telling him to stay strong and believe in Sherlock. And he most definitely didn't expect to break down at the sight of the gravestone, after seeing his friend's name written in it, because it was just _not possible_. How could Sherlock, this amazing and brilliant man, have died? How could John, after everything they've been through together, just let him die? Where the hell was he to prevent this? Why didn't' he see this coming? Why did he have to be so _useless_?

John fell on his knees and started to cry, not even trying to stop it, because what was the point? Sherlock wasn't there to tell him to stop being an idiot, to tell him that emotions were unnecessary and crying over a dead body was futile. After all, tears had never brought someone back from the grave, so why bother?

It was only the umbrella over him, protecting his body from the rain that had already soaked him to the bones, and the firm grasp on his shoulder, that made him come back to his senses. Mycroft was hovering over him, with a concerned look on his features which, in other circumstances, he would have found odd, but now made him feel slightly calmer. He stood up and followed Mycroft into his car, the elder Holmes waving away his apology for damping the seats, and spent the trip back to the flat (_not home, it wasn't home anymore_) watching the falling rain, aware of Mycroft's eyes on him the entire way.

"Would you like some tea?" asked John, trying to regain his composure.

"John, you can't keep doing this to yourself," said Mycroft, straight to the point.

"I'm fine, Mycroft."

"I think we both know that is a blatant lie. You can pretend all you want John, but what happened today shows that you are not fine."

"Why the hell would it matter to you? I'm none of your concern. Why can't you just let me be?" John tried to keep his emotions at bay, but the trembling on his left hand didn't go unnoticed to the elder Homes.

"I promised him I would keep an eye on you," he replied softly.

John's mask of indifference slipped, being replaced by a pained expression. "Did he ask you to?"

Mycroft smiled softly. "He didn't have to. There's no need to be a genius to notice the way he looked at you. My brother wasn't very good at expressing what he felt, but believe me John... If there was anyone in this world for whom Sherlock would have sacrificed everything, that would be you."

John felt the last remains of his composure broke. He sank in his armchair and, holding his head with his hands, started to cry. He faintly heard Mycroft leave the room and talk to Mrs. Hudson downstairs, before the landlady entered the room and went straight into the kitchen to prepare some tea. She left the cup in front of him, kissed the top of his head, and left him on his own.

* * *

Since his pitiful break down at the cemetery, Mrs. Hudson seemed to believe that he needed to be looked after. _Constantly_. Not to mention the nagging suspicion that Mycroft had something to do with it. Even the man took the liberty to drop by every two weeks, if only for a brief visit. Even if John didn't want to admit it, not even to himself, he was thankful. They were both going out of they're way to support him, and to help him get through Sherlock's death. The least he could do was to try to get better and stop being in denial.

He started with the scarf. He knew he wouldn't be able to just get rid of it, but he could make some changes. Instead of sleeping with it, he decided to place it under his pillow and only grab it if he was having a particularly bad day. It was hard at the beginning; having nothing to hold on to and having lost his escape from reality made John's nightmares come back. He ended up getting used to them, and in the end he only had to endure them two or three times a week.

He started going out again. With Mike Stamford, whom in spite of everything that happened always tried to have a smile for John to cheer him up; with Lestrade, who looked a bit worn out and tired (_he wondered if he looked like that. Maybe that's why everyone looked so concerned when they saw him_) but still sounded like his usual self and somehow always managed to make John feel better; with his army lads, who weren't able to understand what John was going through, but made it up with their contagious good mood and their amusing tales.

All in all, it was a good year. Certainly better than the previous one.

Of course, it wasn't easy. Even if he was getting better at dealing with them, the nightmares that haunted him were sometimes so vivid, that more than once he woke up crying and stayed in a foul mood the whole day. These, and the times when he lost a patient or had to give some bad news at the surgery were the days when the scarf made a reappearance and lulled him into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

On the second anniversary of Sherlock's death, John came to the conclusion that it would be safer to have some company. He was fine now (_he was over it. Seriously. Everything was _**_fine_**), but better safe than sorry, right? Luckily, the decision to think about who that company was going to be was taken out of his hands.

"Mycroft, hello," said John in a surprised tone. "I don't mean to be rude, but what are you doing here? Didn't you come by a couple of days ago?"

"Brilliant observation John," Mycroft replied slyly. He evaluated John's face for a second and gave a tiny smile. "You look better than last year. That's good. Shall we go, then?"

John just watched him turn around and retreat downstairs, before he put on his coat and followed him.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing next to each other in front of Sherlock's gravestone, both of them with a grim expression on their faces.

"You never believed what he said, didn't you?" asked Mycroft after a couple of minutes.

"Sorry, what?"

"What Sherlock told you, before he... fell. You never believed that he was fraud, isn't that right?"

"...No," answered John finally. "I trust him, completely. I'm not sure why he said what he said, but... no one could ever convince me that everything we went through was a lie." He remembered saying something similar to Sherlock (_no, not Sherlock. Sherlock's gravestone_) the first time he visited the cemetery. And it was still true.

Mycroft just drew out a sigh and kept looking forward.

"When we were young," he said finally, "our relationship wasn't as strained as the one you witnessed this last couple of years. Sherlock was always very eager to learn new things and he usually came to me for more knowledge. We would read together, especially science books, and I often helped him with some of his experiments. He looked up to me, as younger brothers tend to do with the older ones, and even at that age I always made sure that he stayed safe. Being that young, and as bright as he was, made it hard for him to connect with the kids in his class. And they didn't like him very much either, with him deducing them and making them so uncomfortable. So, at the time, I was his best friend and the only person he was able to trust. But then, the time came when I had to go to college." Mycroft turned his head to look at John, with a sad expression hidden behind his usual mask of indifference. "Sherlock didn't take it very well, naturally. He felt like I had abandoned him, left him in a house with an absent father and an indifferent mother, and a school full of children that couldn't nor wouldn't understand him. It was then that he started to close himself off from everyone, and decided that things like friendship and trust were unnecessary. A waste of time."

He stopped, and let a small smile lit his lips. "And then, he met you. I have no idea what went through his head when you two met, but there is one thing I do know. You, John Watson, are the first person who managed to make Sherlock get out of his shell and show him that it is possible for him to have friends and to trust someone else. Because, and never doubt this, you were the most important person to him. And he trusted you with his life."

John broke off eye contact with Mycroft and turned to look at the gravestone in front of him. He could feel his throat tightening and his heart beating loudly inside of his chest. He took a deep breath and turned to face Mycroft again.

"Thank you. For telling me this." He cleared his throat. "Would you give me a second, please? I won't take long."

"Of course." Mycroft replied softly. "I'll wait for you outside."

When John heard Mycroft's steps fade away, he kneeled and touched Sherlock's gravestone carefully, as if it were the man himself.

"I-" He broke off. He took a deep breath and continued. "You would probably be angry if you knew Mycroft told me all this. You never liked to talk much about your childhood. If I could, I would go back in time and found you when you were a kid. I would have been your friend and hopefully, you wouldn't have been so lonely." John felt hot tears running down his face, but ignored them. "Would that have changed anything? Would you be here now, if we had been friends from the start? Or maybe if we hadn't met... how would have things turned out?" _What do I have to do? What do I have to do for you to be alive, running through London and solving all those interesting puzzles that you loved so much? I'd do anything, _**_anything_**_. Just please, stop this..._

John stood up, drying his tears with the hem of his jumper, and made his way back to the waiting car.

* * *

After the last visit to the cemetery, things got better. Mostly.

The nightmares were almost gone, and so was the need to hold on Sherlock's scarf for dear life. He still did it regularly, but it wasn't as urgent as before. He avoided being at the flat as much as possible, opting instead to get out for a walk or to go for a pint with someone, incapable to stand the silence (w_here is a screeching violin when you needed one_?) for too long when Ms. Hudson wasn't around.

Sadly, there were some annoying changes too.

His psychosomatic limp decided to make its reappearance every now and then, like a constant reminder (_as if he needed another one_) that the person who had helped him get rid of it was no longer there to make sure that it never came back. Even worst, when Mrs. Hudson found out, she made him promise her that he would call his therapist again. (_The same therapist he had gone to once, after Sherlock's fall, before realizing how _**_useless_**_ and _**_not helpful_**_ she was being._) What was the point of going to see her? Nothing she said was going to make John feel better. Besides, he was fine. Everything was just _fine_.

But of course, Mrs. Hudson insisted, and John couldn't say no to her. Especially when she looked at him like that, with the eyes of a mother worried about her son. So he went to his therapist, spent most of the hour listening to her and agreeing to everything she said, and promised to come back the next week. Which, of course, he didn't. (_Mrs. Hudson didn't need to know that, obviously. The walks weren't _**_just_**_ to escape from the silence, after all._)

* * *

"John, dear, you look a bit pale. Have you eaten anything today?" asked Mrs. Hudson, frowning slightly.

"I'm all right Mrs. Hudson, just a bit tired. Long day at the surgery. I was about to make some tea actually..." said John with a small smile, getting up from the couch.

"Oh John, you are working too hard. You should take a break one of these days; you've been looking a bit worn out lately." She placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up, a look of concern written on her face. "Stay here dear, I'll make a nice cup of tea for you and a couple of sandwiches. Is that all right?"

John sighed, but decided to indulge her. It was useless to try to dissuade her after all. "It's perfect. Thank you."

She placed a kiss on his cheek and went to the kitchen. "No need to thank me dear. It's no trouble."

John smiled to himself and went back to his laptop. A couple of minutes later, Mrs. Hudson appeared again with the tea and a plate of sandwiches, and left them on the small table in front of him.

"If you're still hungry, there are some more in the fridge. I should get going, the cab will be here any second now."

"Have a nice trip Mrs. Hudson. Call me when you get there, and say hello to your niece for me."

"Thank you dear, I will." She gave him a hug and another kiss on the cheek, and left.

A few hours later, sleep started to creep up on him, so he decided to call it a night. He went to the bathroom and had a quick shower, before heading to his bedroom to change. It had been a few weeks since he slept holding the scarf close to his body, but he was tired, and knowing that in less than a week it would be the three-year anniversary of the detective's death didn't help much either. But when he took hold of the pillow to look for the scarf hidden under it, he found nothing. The scarf wasn't there. How was that possible? He went back to the living room to see if he had left it in there by accident, when he saw him.

He stood still, holding his breath, thinking that he had finally lost his mind, that all those months of imagining him alive in his dreams and all the time he spent thinking about him had made him snap, that...

"John."

Oh god and it sounded just like him too.

"John, it's me. You're not crazy; I'm real. I'm here."

He seemed worried. Sherlock had never shown his emotions, he was always calm and collected, while this Sherlock look concerned, and tired, and... had Sherlock's scarf clutched firmly on his hand.

"No, it can't be... You can't be real. I saw you fall, I-" He could feel his eyes watering slightly and his left hand shaking. Sherlock seemed to notice too, because he looked even more distraught than before.

"John, I'm alive. I'm sorry I lied to you, but it was necessary. I was trying to keep you safe. _Please_."

If Sherlock's apology wasn't enough to break John, the please did it. He straightened up and walked slowly towards his friend, afraid he would just disappear, until they were face to face.

He reached forward with his trembling hand and placed it on his Sherlock's chest. And there it was, his heart beating under his palm, his warmth making its way through his own body until it reached his own heart, which had been so cold since he saw the detective fell from the hospital's roof.

"Sherlock." John looked up at his friend, who was staring right back at him. Seeing the detective's pleading look, his need to know if John would be able to forgive him, he did something that he had always wanted to do, but until now he though was not going to be accepted.

John closed the few inches between them and used his free arm to press Sherlock against him in an embrace, tucking his head under the detective's chin. He felt Sherlock stiffen for a moment, at lost, but finally placed both of his arms around him, tugging him even closer. They stayed like that for a while, the silence (_but it's not so quiet anymore, isn't it?_) being interrupted only by the sound of their breathing.

When they let go, still standing close to each other, John looked at Sherlock and smiled, his eyes bright from the unshed tears.

"God, I missed you. Don't you dare do that to me again. I won't let you get off the hook so easily, do you hear me?"

"Duly noted, John," promised Sherlock with a smile of his own.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

Hello everyone! I've been wanting to write a post-Reichenbach fic for a long time now, so i'm glad my muse finally decided to come back from her holiday.

This is my first Sherlock fic, and my second english one. So please, if you see any mistakes, let me know so i can fix them and get better :) There's nothing wrong to have some reviews with constructive criticism, even if it's a bit harsh (Just don't be rude, please.).

I hope you enjoyed and, if you don't mind, let me know if you'd be interested in a sequel. I'm thinking about writing one but i'd like to make sure this one doesn't suck too much first...

Lots of love Xx


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